When streaks in the sky decide
To echo the pinks of the meadow,
When lightning flashes its enthusiasm
And thunder grumbles a reply,
When winds and waters and insects
Sing unending three-part chorus,
When slanted rays of sun
Smile attention on cliff faces
That glow with happiness,
Either we’ve projected our sentience
Onto the natural world
Or its sentience is teaching us
Our own smallness—
How tiny the visible spectrum is
And the range of our ears,
How amplified true magic must be
Compared to the speck we sense.

Everything
Every thing
Fills me with awe
That it exists at all,
Whether by design
Or by chance—
For either way
All of life is a wonder.

Nonconformity
Can be healthy
And beautiful,
I say.
If someday
The whole bush is half purple,
Half white,
Because I didn’t pluck out
This “wayward” branch,
I will love it
All the more
For being different.

If we could comprehend
All the properties of light
Inside and out,
I believe we could
Disappear into it
And reappear wherever we please
And traipse through the universe
To watch the miracle of birth
In rainbow-painted nebulae
With relaxed and reverent stillness,
Like a cat in the sun,
As we soak in the warmth
Of the greatest resource of all.

I miss the sky
And the clear air.
Not long ago it was vivid blue,
The mountains zigzagged
Along its horizon,
The sun was white instead of red,
And we praised getting out of doors
That now we hide behind.
Smoke has stolen the peaks and clouds,
So I’ll leave this vintage postcard
Like a MISSING flier
Begging their return.

Another generation in the woods
Learning gratitude for flashlights and sticks,
For sheltering aspens and pines,
For campfires and warm layers,
For cooling streams with their magic sound,
For soaring hawks and hopping cottontails,
For spotting a deer or a steer staring at you
And staring back, saying,
Wow.

My favorite part
Was the fiery pink color
That splashed itself onto
Wave-soaked rocks
And onto splotches of sea
Like a path of stepping stones
Straight into the sunset.
Walk across the water—
Perhaps we were meant to
But forgot.

Tiny motionless silhouettes
Lined across a peak
And all at once thrown into flight
By a sound or a gust
Or just a whim
That pulled them up
Toward a half moon.
Oh to live by instinct!
To choose a branch or rooftop perch,
Observe, leave, circle, return, or not.
To soar because you were made to.